They Burned Our Dreams Alive
by varlovian
Summary: "You have to get out of here, Stiles. You have to get Scott and run." Some stories have a happy ending. This isn't it. (AU, Derek/Stiles.)


Inspired by Matthew Reilly's incredible novel, _Contest_. You don't need to have read the book to understand the story.

Written for the prompt: "Stiles/Derek, Red".

* * *

**THEY BURNED OUR DREAMS ALIVE**

_"Life without meaning cannot be borne._  
_We find a mission to which we're sworn_  
_- or answer the call of death's dark horn.  
__Without a gleaning of purpose in life  
__we have no vision, we live in strife  
__- or let blood fall on a suicide knife."_

— DEAN KOONTZ

Throughout the library, the old, fluorescent lights spluttered and died.

Stiles felt for Scott at his shoulder.

Scott held him tightly, frightened. "Daddy? What's happening?"

"I don't know, Scotty," Stiles pursed his lips in thought, trying desperately to calm the rabbit-fast beating of his heart. He could tell by the way Scott shivered slightly that he could hear it—just as he knew he could sense the panic, the fear. He had to keep calm, had to protect Scott. A job easier said than done, considering the complete absence of light. He looked left, then right.

Nothing. Only black.

Endless, seamless black.

Scott shifted in his arms. "Daddy," he whined, burying his face in his neck. His soft, downy hair played against Stiles' chin. He buried his face in it, breathed in the warm, familiar scent of his son. He didn't have to possess Scott's extraordinary aptitude to know that he was scared. He just had to be a good father. "Daddy, where are we?"

"Still in the labyrinth," he murmured, arm secured around Scott's back. Scott huddled closer, small hands tightening in the fabric of Stiles' shirt. Scott's apprehension was definitely warranted, since the last time they'd been thrown into pitch darkness, they'd found themselves in the New York State Library. This wouldn't be an issue, except for the fact that Stiles lived in California.

Everything that had happened afterwards was, in a word, unbelievable. The only thing that made it easier to stomach was the fact that it was still happening to him, at that exact moment.

Stiles' mind flitted back to the Konda, its insect body and the way its breathing mask was torn from its face. It had suffered a long, slow death—the first in the Presidian. The Presidian, which was the name of the contest Stiles and his son were now a part of. A contest that was, essentially, a fight to the death.

A fight to the death with _aliens_.

Stiles felt nausea rise to his gut at the thought. _Okay, not so easy to stomach after all._

"We need to find Deaton and Officer Hale," he told Scott, addressing him as an adult. Scott was only eight, but he was smarter than Stiles and his abilities of perception were better than most adults he knew. Try anyone he knew, really. Stiles felt Scott nod against his skin. He tightened his grip around his son's body and stepped towards the general direction of the Stack.

"Stiles," a voice announced behind him. Stiles nearly tripped over his feet in the darkness.

He flailed uselessly, until the moment that he realised he knew that voice.

"Officer Hale?" he asked, hesitantly. "What happened? Why did the lights go out? Where's Deaton?"

Before Officer Hale—_Derek_, Stiles reminded himself, _he told me to call him Derek_—could respond, the lights flickered on around them. Stiles careened around to stare at Officer Ha—Derek, and felt his stomach bottom out completely. Derek was covered in blood. The instant Stiles saw him, he knew. His averted his gaze to where Derek was holding his abdomen.

His abdomen, where he was literally holding in his insides.

"Oh my god," Stiles breathed, eyes wide. Scott, who had been silent so far, released a tiny sob into Stiles' neck. "Derek?"

"T–The Malonian and the Crisean. Joined forces," Derek rasped. "You have to get out of here, Stiles. You have to get Scott and run, _now_."

Stiles shook his head immediately. "There's no fucking way I'm leaving you here."

Scott sniffled against his neck. "Swear jar," he muttered, but his heart wasn't in it.

Scott sounded tired, resigned and deeply upset. Like he knew. Like he'd felt it. Stiles didn't pretend to understand his son's gifts, but he'd accepted them as an integral part of their lives. Scott was a great judge of character, and he'd warmed to Derek immediately, stony demeanour and all. That had been enough for them so far. Enough for him. But now...

Stiles' entire body grew rigid with shock, because it was in that moment that he knew.

There was no way Derek was getting out of this alive.

"They released me on purpose, Stiles," said Derek, breath coming out in short, sharp pants. "It's a... trap. They're following me... to get to you. You have to go. Now."

"No, I—"

"NOW, Stiles!"

Scott whimpered. Stiles stood his ground. "I–I can't, Derek. I can't do that." He swallowed, choking down the tears that prickled at the corners of his eyes. "You're coming with us."

Derek shook his head, slowly, and Stiles' breath hitched. He looked down at Derek's other hand, and a wave of absolute dread rippled through him. Derek was holding his service pistol.

Holding it.

Raising it.

To the side of his own head.

"No!" Stiles screamed. "No, Derek, _please_!"

Stiles looked up at Derek, at the half-crazed look in his eyes, the agony that lingered there. Derek was prepared to take his own life to stop Stiles from saving him—something that he knew would get them all killed. But that wasn't it. Derek was in pain, a lot of pain. He'd been in pain since Laura, his sister and fellow police officer, had died at the blade of the Crisean. Now, he was in a different kind of pain altogether. Stiles' heart clenched. He couldn't handle this. He couldn't.

Derek's entire body swayed and he staggered backwards. Stiles shot out an arm to catch him, and he steadied. But the pain on Derek's face had intensified.

"Please, Stiles," Derek urged, voice small and weary. "If you leave me here, I'll fight them off. For as long as I can. Even if it's only a second longer. But I won't let you die because of me."

Stiles nodded, jerkily, then leaned in and pressed his lips to Derek's. He opened to the kiss, allowed it to deepen. Derek's tongue played against his, licking gently into his mouth. Both their faces were wet, as was Stiles' neck where Scott sobbed silently. When Stiles drew back, Derek smiled weakly. "Go."

A blood-curdling screech echoed out from the stairwell. Stiles staggered back, felt for Scott. "Derek, I don't think that I can—"

"_Go_," Derek repeated, shoulders straightening slightly in his resolve. "Save your son. Find Deaton. Take them down. Win this. For Scott and for me and for Laura."

"I will," he promised, his face shattering entirely, his breath hitching on a sob.

Derek nodded, and raised his gun in the direction of the sound. He swayed in the air, a steady stream of blood trickling down his fingers. Stiles looked at it, looked at him. In the blur of his tears, all he could see was red. He blinked, wiped his eyes. Then he turned around and sprinted towards the elevator. It was broken, but lodged between floors. He and Scott should be safe there, for the moment. He wished, more than anything, that he was strong enough to take Derek with him, but they both knew that he wasn't.

He turned around, long enough to see that Derek was staring directly at him. The noise reached a fever pitch, and Stiles could see a dark shadow cut across the stairwell. The shadow had horns.

The Malonian.

"Goodbye, Stiles," Derek said, grinning broadly at him one last time before he twisted back around to face the oncoming threat. Stiles made his way to the elevator, slipped inside with Scott, and was just about to jump over to the roof of the second, broken lift when he heard the sound of gunshots.

Gunshots, and a scream.

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I'm considering expanding on this, perhaps throwing in Derek being a werewolf. What do you think?


End file.
